


Death of a Beloved

by alyjude_sideburns



Series: The Mustang Series [1]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair demands a divorce and gets his man.  Not a death story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death of a Beloved

**Death of a Beloved by Alyjude**

 

 

"I want a divorce."

Jim Ellison stopped midway into his home, his castle, his cave, his shelter from the storm of human behavior, his, well, you get the picture.

He gazed, puzzled, at his roommate, his partner, his friend, his guide, his, well, you get the picture.

Blair Sandburg stood in the middle of the livingroom, arms crossed over his chest, regarding his roommate, his partner, his friend, his Sentinel, his, well, yadda-yadda. He looked really angry. Really.

 

Jim stepped back, one, two, then stepped out into the hall, gently, quietly, closing the door behind him. He looked at the numbers that were screwed into the loft door.....#307, yep, that's his address. #307 Prospect. Him. His.

He sighed. Okkkkaaay, we'll try this again. He *re*-opened the door, and Blair stood right where he'd left him. Jim sighed again, his special, "must be patient with Blair Sandburg because he is insane, but my best friend" sigh, and said, "No divorce."

"I want a divorce and you can't stop me."

"Blair", he said, oh, so patiently, as he took off his jacket with exaggerated care, "the best you can hope for is an annulment."

"An annulment? An _annulment_?"

"Yeah, an annulment. You know, a divorce for those who have _not_ consumated their relationship. We have not, at least to my knowledge, consumated our relationship. Have we?"

"Yes."

Jim put his keys in the basket, looked longingly at the couch, but decided he needed a beer for this latest Blairconversation, so he walked over, grabbed one out of the fridge, unscrewed the cap, took three huge swigs, then after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he sighed yet again and faced his partner.

"You said, *yes*. Why do I think I'd remember if we'd consumated this... this... whatever the hell _this_ is."

"Well, you do have this slight tendancy toward repression, you know? You've repressed the consumation."

"No, I don't think so. I've repressed people, I've repressed events in my life, but I have never, ever repressed sex. Ever. Never. Wouldn't do it. Physically impossible. And sex with you? Okay... maybe. I _could_ repress sex with you."

Blair sighed his special, "Must be patient with Jim Ellison because he is a repressed son of a bitch and who'd have him as a friend for more than twenty seconds, let alone three, going on four years" sigh. Blair, being a natural talker, _would_ have a sigh longer than the Declaration of Independence.

"Jim. Trust me. You would never, could never, would never _want_ to repress sex if you'd had it with me."

"GOTCHA! An annulment. No sex."

"The merge."

Jim stopped the blessed movement of the beer bottle up to his lips. God Damn. The merge.

"So you're basing this divorce on the merge?"

"I'm basing the fact that I'm getting a divorce and not an annulment, on the merge. I don't want a divorce _because_ of the merge. See?"

 Jim walked unsteadily over to a chair and sat down. He took another swig.

 "So, the merge has nothing to do with this?"

 "Well..."

 "I just knew it. All these months, and I was so certain I'd escaped a discussion on the merge. No such luck."

 "All I'm saying is that in the merge, I committed myself to you. We got married, in a weird, spiritual, native, spirit-guide, kinda way. And by the way? I had the finest orgasm of my life. By the way."

 "But now you want a divorce?"

 "Yes. And aren't you going to tell me?"

 "Tell you what?"

 "If it was as good for you, as it was for me?"

 "On a scale of 1 to 10? For weird, spiritual, native, spirit-guide orgasms? A 10."

 "So, I'm entitled to a divorce. I want one. And don't even think of asking me to leave. _I_ get the loft."

 "Before I pack my meager belongings, do I get to know why you want a divorce?"

 "If you don't know? I'm sure as hell not going to tell you. Out." He made a very dramatic gesture with his right arm.

 Jim made a very dramatic gesture with the middle finger of his right hand.

 "What crawled up your ass and died?"

 "You. Today. Simon's office."

 Jim thought. Long and hard. Today. Him. Simon's office. He drew a blank.

 "I'm drawing a blank, Chief. Help me out here."

 "Cynthia Robertson."

 Okay, Cynthia Robertson. Uh, Cynthia Robertson.   "Cynthia Robertson."

 "Yes. Cynthia Robertson."

 Cynthia Robertson. Tall. Stacked. Blonde. _Captain_ Cynthia Robertson.   "Captain Cynthia Robertson?"

 "Captain Robertson."

 The light dawned. Blindingly.  "Oh."

 Blair's foot began to tap. Tap-tap-tap.

 "You want a divorce because I offered you to her."

 "You _gave_ me to her. Just gave me. Just like", Blair snapped his fingers, "that."

 "I _offered_ your services. Your very talented services. It was a compliment. You should be flattered."

 "You said, 'Take Sandburg here. He's not a real cop yet. Simon can spare him.' Ring a bell, Jim?"

 Jim gulped. "I said that?"

 "Yes."

 "Well, you know I didn't mean it like that. You _know_ that, right?"

 "No, Jim. I don't know that. And I had to go with her. And do her grunt work. All fucking day. And what exactly were you and Simon doing all fucking day? Could you remind me, please?"

 "Uh, very important work. Very important. For the Mayor."

 "Uh, huh. And what exactly was that very important duty? For the Mayor? While I went through records? Dusty, dirty, cobwebbed records? Housed in the warehouse on Stevens Street? You know, the warehouse with all the spiders and no heat, and no ventilation, but with over 10,000 fucking file boxes?"

 "judging."

 "What was that, Jim? I couldn't quite hear you. What did you say?"

 "Judging."

 "Judging. JUDGING. And what were you and Simon judging while I braved Brown Recluse, Black Widows, and bats?"

 "There are no Brown Recluse or bats. You're exaggerating."

 "A nest of Brown Recluse were found in the Stevens Street Cascade Police Department Warehouse today. By yours truly. And yes, Jim. There are bats. Lots of bats. And they stink and they chitter."

 "oh."

 "And what were you judging? With Simon?"

 "abeautycontest."

 "A beauty contest. And what beauty contest would that have been, Jim? While I was discovering a nest of Brown Recluse?"

 "misswashington."

 "Miss Washington. As in, the winner goes onto the Miss America Pageant, right?"

 "yes."

 "Uh, huh."

 "Blair, come on. How was I to know about Brown Recluse? And it was just the preliminary judging. Not the real judging."

 " _I_ was supposed to judge. Until you volunteered me to Captain Robertson. Remember? Me and Simon. Not _you_ and Simon."

 "Blair, it was really boring. The women were dogs. Every one of them. Woof-woof. Bow-wow. Trust me, Washington is not going to make the Top Ten next year."

 "Ellison, you are a Grade AA bastard. And I want a divorce. You sleep at Simon's tonight."

 Jim was saved by the bell. Okay, make that saved by the *brrrinng* of the phone. He literally jumped up, relieved to have something to do, hoping that the entire city was at the mercy of some unscrupulous terrorist.

 "Ellison."

 //Jim, Powers has two civilian and one police hostage over at the Murchison Brownstone. He's demanding an appearance by us//

 "How the fuck did he get free?"

 //The bus taking him and two others was involved in a three vehicle collision. He escaped. He took one police guard and two people from the other cars involved//

 "We're on our way." Jim hung up and faced Sandburg.

 "Wyatt Powers. He has hostages. We're rolling, Chief."

 "Shit."

 #}#}#}#}}#}#}#}#}#}#}#

Both men stood gazing down at the flat tire on the truck.

 "We can take the Volvo."

 "The Volvo. Swell. Let's go, Chief."

 #}#}#}#}#}#}#}#}#}#}#}#}

 The Murchison Brownstone was a landmark in Cascade. A landmark that had been converted into a very popular restaurant two years previously. It sat at the quiet end of Murchison Avenue, next to an empty, undeveloped lot. Jim directed Sandburg to park in the field, behind the brick fence that surrounded the Brownstone.

They both sat. Blair watched as Jim listened.

"Shit. He has explosives."

"He wants you and Simon, doesn't he?"

 "Yeah. Simon and I brought him down. Just before you and I met. Wyatt Powers was--"

 "A hitman for the Costello Family. I remember. He was caught trying to take out two members of the City Council. Caught by you and Simon."

 "And he was finally, after four years of appeals, and continuances, sentenced three weeks ago. They were moving him to the federal penitentiary today."

 "And he escaped. With a little help from a three car collision.  Jim..."

 "Don't worry. Let's join Simon."

 #{#{#{#{#{#{#{#{#

 "He says that if you and I go in, he'll let the others go."

 "Simon, you and Jim aren't....I mean...."

 "Relax Sandburg."

 The three men, and Joel Taggert, were leaning against Simon's car. Ahead of them, stood the Brownstone. And surrounding the Brownstone, SWAT, and six Cascade PD squad cars. Officers were kneeling behind car doors, standing against cars, all with rifles and guns aimed at the Brownstone.

 Simon's cellphone rang. The big man plucked it off the roof of his car, knowing that Powers would be on the other end.

 "Banks."

//You and Ellison have two minutes. If you're not here, I'll send one hostage out... feet first. The lady here. Her name is Jean. She's a mother. Two minutes//

 Simon disconnected.

 "He says....".

 "I know. Two minutes."

 Jim and Simon looked at each other. There was only one choice. Jim took off his jacket and unhooked his holster and gun. Simon followed suit. Blair couldn't believe his eyes.

 "Now wait a minute. This is foolish. The minute you walk in there, all three of you are dead. He has to know that. It can't be this simple. Don't you see that?"

 Blair got no response.

 "Simon?" Blair turned to Taggert, "Joel, you know I'm right. Something else is going on here.  Come on, talk to them."

 Taggert addressed Simon, "Blair could be right. This is too easy. He's got to know that there will be no way out for him, once he lets those civilians go, and has two cops instead."

 "Then I guess Jim and I will have to rely on you two to get us out of there." Simon turned to Jim and said, "Ellison? You ready?"

 "Ready sir."

 The two men walked around the front of the car, hands raised in the air.

 "POWERS! ELLISON AND I ARE COMING IN!"

 ******************************************************  
  
---  
  
As Blair watched Jim Ellison and Simon Banks walk, unarmed, into the front door of the Murchison Brownstone, he quizzed Taggert.

"Joel, tell me more about this collision."

"The prison bus taking Powers from the city jail to the penitentiary was traveling down Evanston when a van careened around the corner of Evanston and Murchison and slammed into the bus." Joel paused as he and Blair watched the SWAT snipers move into place. When it was apparent that no hostages were forthcoming, Joel continued.

"The bus then slid across Evanston and into two other cars, then flipped over on its side. The back door flew open, and Powers was free. One of the guards tried to stop him; Powers took him hostage. A woman was climbing out of her damaged car when Powers grabbed her as well. The other hostage is a teen, he was driving the second car struck by the bus."

"And the van?"

Joel gave a quick look at Sandburg, puzzled by the question. "The van? What about it?"

Blair gave a small impatient shake of his head, then, "That van was kind of a fortunate coincidence for Powers, don't you think? What happened to that driver?"

Joel thought for a moment, then shook his head in wonder. "Shit, Sandburg, I don't know."

Okay, Blair hadn't liked the whole thing, now he liked it even less. He might not be a _real_ cop yet, still days away from graduation, but damn, he wasn't stupid. And this was just too convienent.

The massive front door of the building swung open and three people moved slowly out. The hostages. Powers had kept his word.

Now Blair _really_ hated the whole scenario.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Inside the Brownstone, Jim and Simon stood, facing a far wall, hands on their heads.

"Well, well. Just like old times, gentlemen."

"Powers, you're a dead man. You must realize that. The building is--"

"Let me finish that for you, Captain Banks. The building is surrounded. How unique, how original. I'm so impressed. But you're in here, with me. They're out there, without me. And you two are about to die."

Jim tried to turn, to face their captor, but a terse, "Stay put, Ellison, or lose a kneecap", changed his mind. Instead, he asked, "And just how do you expect to escape?"

"I could say that killing you two is enough, that escape doesn't matter in light of revenge, but that would be bunkam. I fully intend to kill you both, and while the cops outside are picking up the pieces? I'll be on my way."

As he talked, Jim let his eyes do his investigating. The room was in disarray. And given the information Simon had provided, Powers could only have been in the building thirty minutes before he and Sandburg arrived. Not enough time to do all this.

The tables were pushed against the opposite wall, the center rug had been rolled up and now rested on the other side of the door, and the explosives Jim had sensed earlier appeared to be inside a large box just behind Powers. And the room smelled the way a construction site smelled. Jim tried to glimpse the area to Powers right, but a huge antique armoire blocked his view.

"Okay gentlemen, time to get the show on the road. Captain Banks, you first. Turn around and catch."

Simon turned and deftly caught a set of cuffs as they sailed through the air.

"Good boy. Now cuff Detective Ellison, hands in front, please."

Simon did as he was told then caught another pair as they too flew through the air.

"Now hand those to Ellison, and Detective, cuff Banks."

"Okay. Please note the two chairs? Walk over and have a seat."

Ellison and Banks looked at each other, then did as they were told. The chairs faced away from Powers and the rest of the room, and were back to back.

"I'm very proud of this. My own little device. It's a bomb, of course. But rather unique. It's the size of a CD, but carries enough punch to take down this building. Impressive, isn't it?" Powers moved towards the two men, and in one hand, he held an object that did in fact, look like a CD and in the other hand, a set of chains.

"Ellison, think fast." Powers tossed the CD looking bomb. Jim's cuffed hands came up and he _just_ caught it.

"Good boy. Now, this is how it's going to work. Ellison, your hands are now keeping that bomb from going off, because I just armed it. Any sudden moves, and boom. This will allow me to chain the two of you to the chairs without one of you deciding to become a hero. And if you're wondering why I didn't let the hostages do this for me? Because this is so much more fun."

Powers was a big man, standing at least as tall as Simon, but a good twenty to twenty five pounds heavier. He was in his thirties and bald. He was a strong man, and completely insane. Jim and Simon stayed very still as they were chained to the chairs.

"There. All done. And I'll just take that little bomb thingy, thank you so much for holding it for me while I made you both comfortable." He took it carefully from Jim's fingers and walked over to one of the tables and set it down.

"Well, gentlemen, it's been fun, but I'm outta here. This little gem is set to go off in fifteen minutes, but of course, I'll be long gone. Oh, wait. I can't leave you like this. Silly me." And he walked back over to them and proceeded to gag each man.

"There, that's much better. Can't have you yelling to the good guys, can I?"

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Blair had spent the last couple of minutes observing the area and the building while the hostages had been removed, and were being debriefed. The brick wall looked like his best bet. He was just about to make his move, when Joel put the two way radio mic back in its holder and climbed back out of the car.

"Sandburg, looks like you were right. The van driver was never found. And the vehicle itself was reported stolen two days ago. This whole thing is a set up."

Blair didn't feel one bit better. But he had a plan. There were explosives in that building, and he could guess how they would be used.

His memory was trying to tell him something about the building. The historic building... and then he remembered.

"Joel, if I were you? I'd get a bunch of guys over to Evanston. If Cascade history and my memory is correct, the Murchison Brownstone has some underground passages that lead over to Evanston and even further. To the docks. If I remember correctly, you can access the tunnels from the old Grover Theater, which is now closed."

Taggert looked at Sandburg in amazement. His mind was a veritable font of information.

"Shit, Sandburg, where do you store this stuff?"

"Joel? The theater?"

"Right. On my way. But what about Jim and Simon?"

"If I'm right, SWAT will be able to move in as soon as you give the word."

Joel took off, and seconds later, he and several other officers were making their way to Evanston. And Blair moved back toward the empty field, the brick wall, and a back way into the Brownstone.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Blair climbed over the wall and dropped lightly down to the ground. He stayed in a crouch, waiting. No sound. No movement. From his position, he couldn't be seen by the snipers, but in a moment, they'd spot him. He stayed low and made his way to the delivery door. By now, he knew the officers on Murchison were being informed of his movements. He didn't care. He just hoped the door was unlocked. It was.

There were a lot of ways he could have handled this. He could have waited until they got the word from Taggert. He could have taken a couple of officers with him, or sent them in. But he knew he didn't have time. He _knew_ it. He also knew they wouldn't have listened. So he moved on his own.

Quietly, he moved inside. In his heart of hearts, he was certain that Powers was gone, but caution was caution.

Blair moved through the kitchen, out into the main part of the restaurant, and the first thing he saw was the hole in the ground. And the ladder. Powers was gone. Sandburg passed in front of the armoire used to house antique dishes, and spotted Jim and Simon. He rushed forward.

Blair pulled off the gag first, thinking that all the mumbling noises, head jerking and eyebrow waggling the two men were making, might just be important.

"mmohhph....bomb, the bomb, Sandburg. On the small table, behind you. Timer, maybe a minute left", Jim managed to get out, as the gag was removed.

Blair whirled and took quick steps to the indicated table. A small, round disc sat, looking harmless and for all the world like a CD. Except for the red light blinking......58, 57, 56, 55......

He grabbed it up and ran back the way he'd come. He burst through the delivery door, ran around the corner, stopped at the brick wall, glanced down and noted......10, 9, 8, 7.....

He threw it up and over the wall with every ounce of strength he possessed. Then he dropped and covered his head.

The explosion was loud. Powerful. But in an open field, no harm, no foul.

Blair stood, brushed himself off, and went back inside.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

When the bomb blew, Jim knew a moment of deja vu; an elevator, his partner, maybe dead. Jim's heart stopped a moment, then footsteps, oh, so familiar footsteps, sounded behind him and Blair's hands were undoing chains and cuffs.

Jim stood, flexed, watched Simon do the same, then he looked down at his partner and said, "And I suppose you have a good reason for coming inside? For pulling this heroic stunt?"

Blair just gazed back, eyes wide and innocent as he replied, "Jim, I want a divorce, not a funeral. I'm _so_ not into being a widower. You know?"

Simon, who'd been rubbing his wrists, stopped cold and stared at his best team. Divorce? Had he missed the wedding? God, he hated Ellison and Sandburg. He really did.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The three men stepped outside, onto Murchison, as officers rushed up, congratulating Banks and Ellison, thumping their backs, and ignoring Sandburg completely. Which was fine. The longer they forgot that a police cadet had pulled a very stupid stunt, the better.

Taggert rushed up, talking a mile a minute as he happily shook Simon's hand and pounded Jim on the back.

"Blair was right, he nailed it, we caught Powers, sneaking out of the theater, you should have seen his face, there we were, guns drawn, he saunters out, so sure he was going to make a clean get away, but no, and guess who was with him? Yep, the driver of the van, Sandburg, you are one smart cookie."

Banks and Ellison stared at each other, then at Joel, then at Sandburg, who just shrugged.

"What can I say? Memory like an elephant."

"Jim, you know we're never going to live this down. Sandburg will be impossible to live with."

Jim was stopped from answering Simon by a SWAT officer.

"Captain Banks, I wanted to let you know that there was no property damaged in the explosion, except an old, abandoned car, left in the field. Looked like a Volvo."

Sandburg ran.

)()()()()()()()()

"She's dead."

Blair was standing in the field, gazing down on the remains of his classic, beloved Volvo. He bent and picked up the gear shift knob. Brushed it off, spit on it, then rubbed his shirt over it.

"I killed my car."

Jim stood behind him, surveying the damage. Simon and Joel were kicking through the rubbish, trying to find any solid pieces.

"Aw, Chief. She died painlessly. I'm sure. And she died in the line of duty. You should be proud."

"I could really get to hate you, Ellison. And may I remind you that if a certain 1969 truck had not had a flat tire, we would be mourning _its_ passing, instead of my wonderful Volvo."

"Oh, yeah. Real sorry about that." Jim tried really hard to put some sympathy into his tone. He failed. All he managed to do was sound as if he were gloating.

Blair put the gearshift into his pocket. His Volvo was gone. Gone.

()()()()()()()()()()

The next day Jim dropped a morose Sandburg off at the academy, then drove on into the station. He went immediately into Simon's office.

"Sir?"

Simon looked up, immediately suspicious. Ellison never called him sir unless he wanted something.

"Yes?"

Jim walked over and sat down. "Simon, is the department going to reimburse Sandburg?"

He'd been expecting that. And the news wasn't good, nor was it a surprise.

"No, Jim. You know as well as I do what Sandburg's current status is. Basically, he doesn't exist. He should never have been with you, and if something had happened to him instead of the Volvo, we'd both be walking a beat."

"I kinda figured. So. What about impound?"

Simon sat back and regarded his best detective. He steepled his fingers, squinted his eyes, then, "Impound. Um. Impound. Not a bad idea, Jim. Not bad at all."

"We could get him a good deal."

Simon sat forward and looked at Ellison with something akin to disappointment.

"Why, Jim, I'm certain we can do better than just get him a deal. This is impound. Have you looked yet? There might not be anything."

"I called Wes, he gave me a rundown and I do believe there just might be the perfect car for my partner."

"I do owe the kid. And this might just shut him up. I really do not want to be reminded every day, for the next twenty years, that he saved my life and lost his beloved Volvo in the process."

"I hear that, Simon. And this might go some towards getting him off my back about that judging thing."

Simon gave one of his deep chuckles and asked, "Why did you pull that stunt, anyway? You were miserable sitting there all day, and you did nothing but grouse."

"Come on, Simon. Blair? Beauty contestants? I had to save the man. It was in his own best interests. All those women, drooling. He's too young to die."

One eyebrow shot up, "So, you did it for him? Not for you? Not to protect your property?"

Jim was taking a sip of his coffee when Simon hit him with that line, and the hot liquid shot across the small space that separated the two men.

"Property?"

Simon gave a disgusted sigh and answered as he wiped up the mess on his desk, "Yes, _property_. That's what I said, that's what I meant. Now get out of here, take this voucher and go down and get Blair a car."

()()()()()()()()()

"Look, Jim. I'm tired, I just want to go home, okay?"

"Blair, we have to stop at impound first. Simon wants me to go over that van with a fine tooth Sentinel comb. It'll only take a couple of minutes, then I'll take you out to dinner, okay?"

They were in the truck and Blair still looked miserable. Jim had picked him up from the academy, and he'd silently climbed in and hadn't said two words during the entire trip back into the city until Jim had mentioned impound.

"Fine. Whatever."

Jim hid his grin and took the right that would take them to the City Impound.

()()()()()()()()()()

"I'll only be a few minutes, Chief, why don't you look around? You may find a bargain. This would be a good place to find a car."

Blair gave Jim a look that said, "let's get the men in white coats", but he started walking. Jim nodded in satisfaction. Blair was headed in the right direction. Jim waited, but not for long.

"JIM! YOU GOTTA GET OVER HERE!"

He walked slowly over to the aisle he knew Blair would be standing in.

He wasn't disappointed. Blair stood in front of the very car Jim had picked out. And he was bouncing.

"Jim, look, have you ever seen anything so beautiful? Look at her. What do you suppose they want for her? Aw, shit, I could never afford her. She's a classic, and look, she's cherried out. And a convertible. Can you see the interior? Look at the steering wheel? Oh, God, she's a beaut."

"Whoa, slow down. Let's go check with Wes. Maybe she can be had. Couldn't hurt to ask."

He took Blair's arm and led him to the small office. He pulled open the door and led the way inside.

Before he could ask Wes, Blair jumped in.

"Hey, man, outside, number 6021, is it, I mean, how much, can it be--shit."

Wes made a good show of looking up number 6021, with Jim barely containing himself. Finally, Wes looked up, sorrow written all over him.

"Sorry, it's taken. It's a voucher car."

Blair looked destroyed. Jim jumped in.

"A voucher car? I don't think I'm familiar with that term?"

"Aw, come on, Jim. Even I know what that means. Some department has already snatched it up."

"The man's right. Let me look... um, yes, here it is. The voucher is for Major Crimes, and the recipient is... Blair Jacob Sandburg."

Blair turned to his partner who was no longer hiding his grin. This was better than Christmas.

"Jim?"

He just nodded.

)()()()()())))))

"Well? Get in. Let's go for a drive."

Blair was running his hand down the sleek, shiny, black surface. His. He owned a 1966, black, convertible Ford Mustang. He glanced up at his partner and smiled. It was the dreamiest, most beautiful smile Jim had ever seen.

"Thank you, Jim."

"Thank *you*."

They climbed in, Blair started up the engine, which purred to life, and slowly he pulled out of impound and onto the streets of Cascade.

)()()()()()()()

They were flying down Ocean Avenue, the wind playing with Blair's hair, whipping it around his happy face. Jim turned slightly in his seat, the better to observe. His eyes took in the hair, the grin, the strong hands on the steering wheel, the blue denim shirt, open at the throat, and he could see the bit of chest hair peeking out, and his eyes moved down, to the strong legs, encased in faded blue jeans, and Jim's breath caught, but he managed to croak out, "Blair, pull in when you get to Widow's Peak."

Blair glanced quickly at his friend, noticed the shocked expression on his face and nodded worriedly.

A few minutes later, the Mustang was pulling into the cove known as Widow's Peak. Blair pulled up under some trees, shut down and asked, "Jim? What's wrong?"

Ellison took a deep breath.

"Blair, I've been thinking. About the annulment, divorce thing. I've decided that the merge does not count. I mean, it would be fine for our spirit guides, but not for us. So. I propose... that we consumate our relationship, the old fashioned way, then if you still want a divorce, well, it will be a divorce."

Blair's head was going up and down in that way he had when thinking something over. "I see. The old-fashioned way. Consumate. You and me."

"Yes."

"Okay." And he pounced.

One minute, Jim was a perfectly calm, thinking, rational human being, making a perfectly reasonable proposal to a friend. The next minute, he was being ravaged by said friend.

Blair had him wedged in the corner of the Mustang, as the same strong hands that had so expertly driven the Mustang, now expertly tore open Jim's shirt. And the man watched in utter amazement as  Blair's head went down and that perfect mouth latched onto one nipple, and Jim was suddenly very glad the convertible was down.

Blair had Jim's shirt off, his zipper undone, and Jim's very happy cock in his mouth before he could say, "1966 Ford Mustang".

This ravaging business was all right.

Jim was in orbit, his hips thrusting up into Blair's mouth, his fingers clutching huge hunks of Blairhair, his moans coming fast and furious. Blair's hands were gripping his thighs; his tongue, lips, and teeth doing a such a number on Jim that he temporarily forgot that he was in a very public place.  All he could focus on was being sucked dry in the front seat of a car, by his very male partner.

When he finally came, was finally _allowed_ to come, it was with a bellow that would have awakened the dead.

Blair licked his lips and smiled wickedly. Then he crawled up, blanketing Jim's body with his own, and kissed the nearly unconscious man.

The kiss brought him back to the world of the living.

"My god."

"Jim, I have always wanted to have sex in a 1966 Ford Mustang Convertible. This is so cool." Blair promplty went back to sucking on Jim's neck.

"And what about me? What about my fantasies?

"Huh?", came the mumbled answer.

"I have always wanted to fuck you blind in the backseat of a 1966 Ford Mustang Convertible."

It's positively amazing how fast a man can move. Blair was up and over the backseat, his own zipper down, along with his jeans, faster than Jim could say "1966, Ford Mustang Convertible."

Jim was a pretty fast mover himself.

Of course, neither one of them had ever fucked in the back seat of a 1966 Ford Mustang Convertible, so there were a few adjustments that needed to be made, but it wasn't long before Blair's legs were firmly anchored, and Jim was balanced precariously on his knees, as he pounded his beloved partner.

The 1966 Ford Mustang Convertible is a strong little car. And this one had very good shocks. It took its new owner's pounding with grace and style.

)()()()()()()()()()()

Jim's head was buried under Blair's chin. Blair was currently rubbing Jim's very sweaty back, his legs still wrapped around Jim's waist.

"I've decided - no divorce. Ever. You're stuck with me now, Jim."

"Stuck being the operative word," Jim mumbled back.

"I'm going to assume you meant that in the bodily fluid way, as opposed to the 'Jim is now stuck with Blair' kind of way."

"Mmm." Jim started to lick Blair's sweaty neck.

"I'll take that as a yes. And did anyone ever tell you that you are one hell of a lover?"

"Not lately." He started on one earringed ear.

"Fools. All of them."

"Nah. Been saving myself. For you." Jim moved up, to Blair's lips.

"umph." Blair couldn't say anything else, not with Jim's tongue in his mouth.

)()()()()()()()()()()

The black Mustang sped down Ocean Avenue. Jim Ellison watched his lover drive. He reached over and turned on the radio. Santana's new song, "Smooth" filled the air.

Jim gazed about him, eyes coming back to Blair, fixating on the hands that had so recently sent him into orbit, that had explored every part of his body, at the fingers, now tapping in time to the music, and he thought, "Could anything be better than this?" And he quickly answered, "Yes, fucking Blair blind in the _front_ seat."

The Volvo is dead, long live the 1966 Ford Mustang Convertible.

 

The End  
  
 


End file.
